


Anything You Can Do

by karanguni



Category: Breakfast with Scot (2007)
Genre: Family Feels, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 22:43:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1099447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karanguni/pseuds/karanguni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scot going back to figure skating triggers a ridiculous escalation of egos in the household.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything You Can Do

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oanja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oanja/gifts).



> I don't even know what I did here. Happy Yuletide!

Sam was entirely satisfied with the realities of his mostly sedentary lifestyle. He was a lawyer. He lawyered. Occasionally, he managed to find the will to descend a few floors to the office gym, where he maybe-ran-mostly-power-walked on the treadmill. Sometimes, weather permitting, he'd go for a long, leisurely run through the park. Mostly, though, Sam was content to get his exercise in by doing (frankly ridiculous amounts of) laundry and peaceably following Scot around malls for hours. 

Eric was nothing like that. Three gym memberships, a home set-up, hour long runs in the early evening, a DeskCycle at work, dumbbells near the couch for whenever a game bored him. If a fitness craze hit Toronto, Eric was the first guy in line to try it out. Retiring early had done exactly one thing for him, which was make him stir-crazy. Sam wasn't going to _complain_ about the fact that Sam kept himself in shape, but the training sometimes edged on obsessive. 

Scot going back to figure skating, though, triggers a ridiculous escalation of egos in the household. 

At first, all that did was was give Eric a guilt-free reason to fuss. Scot would come back from practice at school, skates tied onto the back of his bag, and say, 'My edges aren't sharp anymore,' and presto, the next day there'd be a skate sharpener in the garage. Sam oversaw this with the benevolence of the lazy but caring partner, allowing Eric to crazily grind down skate blades and helping out only during clean up. Happy kid, happy Eric, happy Sam.

* * *

In retrospect, Eric teaching Scot how to sharpen his skates himself should have tipped him off. Sam came home one evening to find the both of them in the garage, Scot actually _cackling_ as sparks flew. 

'Is that safe?' Sam asked, because he really knew nothing about maintaining sports equipment. It _was_ Canada; maybe kids did this all the time? 

'Probably,' Eric said, off-handed, as he held up the skate they'd been working on for inspection. 'Not perfect,' he said to Scot, mussing up the kid's hair. 'But passable for a 11 year old, I guess.'

'Give that to me,' Scot said, reaching to snatch the skate back.

'Er, adult supervision only, I'm thinking,' Sam said. He wasn't sure they heard. 

* * *

'I skated a whole hour by myself after practice today,' Scot commented one night as they were gathered around the television. Sam was reading a mystery novel and paying no attention to the Sabres getting summarily destroyed by the Penguins. He wasn't even sure what conference? division? league? this was. He was pretty sure it was hockey, though. 99% sure. 

'Oh really?' Eric said, munching on some horrific microwaved popcorn that was his game-day indulgence. Sam'd tried to feed him some stuff he'd made himself from on-the-cob kernels dusted with a three-cheese powder from Sur La Table once. Eric had had the most miserable expression on his face as picked at, trying to fake enjoyment.

'Yup. One _whole hour_.'

'When I was your age, I shot pucks into the garage door for two hours before dinner every other day,' Eric said, eyes still fixed on the screen. Sam peered over the top of his book at Scot. The kid was scowling. 

'You know,' Sam said, 'I read novels. Novels were fun. What are you reading in school right now, Scot?'

'Animal Farm,' Scot replied, still scowling at Eric.

'Animal Farm's a great book,' Sam nodded, trying to get him into it. 

'No,' Scot said slowly, dragging his gaze over to Sam. 'It's a dystopian short novel,'

'Novella,' Sam corrected automatically.

' _Novella_ ,' Scot amended venemously, 'that talks about the lives of _pigs_ as metaphor for _Stalinism_. How's that a great book?'

'Fuck yes, Evgeni Malkin!' Eric crowed next to them, pumping a fist. 'Sorry, language, I know. What were you guys talking about?'

'Skating,' Scot said at the same time that Sam went, 'Literary allegories.'

'Weirdos,' Eric pronounced with deep affection. 

* * *

'Scot,' Sam said slowly, 'why are you digging up the back yard?'

Sam'd just come home from work. All he wanted to do was lay on the couch and cry a little bit; his latest client was basically straight out of hell. What did he get instead? Scot, in a pair of bright yellow work boots, destroying the shrubbery he'd so carefully planted two years ago with a shovel. 

'Gotta clear this up,' Scot said, huffing. He had his hair pulled out of his face with a bandana with art noveau patterns on it. 'Need it level.'

Sam felt a headache building. 'Level for what?'

Scot stopped his digging to stare at Sam. 'For a _rink_ , obviously,' he said, rolling his eyes.

Sam paused. Then he just turned to the porch door and yelled, _'Eric!'_

Eric came out, wrangling an enormous length of hose. 'Oh, hey Sam, welcome back, isn't this awesome?' Eric nodded at the devasatation. 'Our first rink! I never thought I'd get to do this. I mean, my dad made one up for me when I was small, but, you know, um, here, hold this, I've got to hook it all up to the outlet.'

* * *

The one time that Sam drove all three of them out to the neighbourhood rink was, to put it lightly, an all out disaster. 

'Bet I can get to the end of the rink and back, flat out, faster than you can,' Scot said casually to Eric about five seconds after they'd got on the ice. 

There were small children around, and grandparents near the boards. 'Please,' Sam said plaintively.

'Punk,' Eric said. 'Loser does the dishes for the week.'

* * *

'Sorry,' Sam apologised profusely to the rink owner as he shoved Scot, still caterwauling at Eric for being "the biggest cheat in the entire _galaxy_ ", into the back of the car. 'Sorry, sorry, let me write you a cheque.'

* * *

'I want to go to ice skating camp,' Scot pronounced during the last week of the school term. 

This was approximately four sets of skates, one garage door, two hosereels, and about five books on parenting later. Sam was done. He had nothing left. 'It's the summer,' he moaned. 'There isn't any ice during the summer.'

'Of course there's ice during the summer,' Eric butted in, because of course. 'C'mere kid,' Eric said, flipping open his laptop. 'What kind of camp? Skills, general, or do you want to train for a competition? I know there are competitions.'

Sam tried to suffocate himself with the couch pillows but failed, because that was his life, apparently.

* * *

He loved Scot and would do anything for him, but the day that Scot walked out the door and went away to summer camp was - no lie - one of the best days of Sam's life. 

'Bye!' Scot screamed, pearl necklaces bouncing madly against his chest as he ran for the bus.

'Don't do anything stupid!' Eric yelled after him. 'Make friends! Listen to your coach! Don't get injured! Remember to call!' 

'If you cry, I'll kill you,' Sam muttered out of the corner of his mouth. He had a smile fixed very firmly as he waved Scot off. 

'I'm a manly ex-hockey player, would I cry?' Eric asked, voice wobbling. 

Sam handed him a handkerchief without a word. 'Let's get back in the house.'

It took Eric about five minutes to get over his moping. 'We're *alone*,' he gushed, taking the stairs up to their room two at a time. 'No more emergencies at 8 in the morning. No more fighting over what to have for dinner. No more tripping over crap in the hall. Blessed silence in the evening. Oh bed,' he proclaimed, falling face-first into its soft embrace. 'I'll never leave you again.'

Sam, who'd followed at a more sedate pace, sat himself next to Eric on the bed. He ran a hand through Eric's short hair, and exhaled. 'This is nice,' he agreed. 

Eric, who hadn't moved, said into the pillows, 'We're alone. Finally alone. And, you know what?' He raised his head to look at Sam. 'I'm exhausted. I just want to sleep for ten years. How is that fair?'

Sam shrugged. 'Reminds me of a time when a certain someone was still in rehab.'

'Oh god,' Sam sighed, dropping his head back down.

'You'd come barging into my office at 5 in the afternoon, fresh out of physical therapy, to talk about your case. All I wanted to do was take you out to dinner or go watch a movie. By the time you were done talking about the eight different ways that rehab sucked, all I wanted to do was go home.'

'Rehab did suck,' Sam muttered mutinously.

'I know,' Eric agreed, sliding a hand under Sam's stomach to turn him over. 'You wouldn't shut up about it any more than Scot shuts up about skating, though.' He boxed Sam down onto the bed, arms braced on either side of Sam's shoulders.

Sam looked up at him. 'There was one way you shut me up,' he said. 

'Mhmm,' Eric agreed. He raised an eyebrow, and put a warm hand on the back of Sam's neck to pull him upwards. 'Remember what it was?' he murmured against Sam's lips.

Eric could feel Sam smile as he said, 'Maybe. But maybe you should remind me.'


End file.
